Chapter Nine
The portly family butler placed the newspaper on the expansive kitchen island in front of the first barstool, a daily ritual he performed for Victoria Taylor. The family matriarch had watched the newscasts the previous evening and knew what had taken place, but only the version of what other viewers had heard from the TV news reporter at the crime scene. She sipped her morning espresso while reading the top story in the Times Herald. The hot liquid churned inside her stomach. Reading about the untimely death made her blood pressure rise again.
Her pink, silk robe flowing behind her, Victoria strode to her bedroom quarters on the east side of the mansion and pulled out her cell phone. She struggled to recall her nephew showing her how to text on her new phone.
The news ids nit good. we need to talk. cal me
She tapped Send just as she saw the typos. Regardless, it was a miracle she remembered how to create and send the note.
Her daddy had taught her to be cool under pressure—easier said than done. She was a control freak and occasionally admitted it to herself. When events didn’t go the way she’d intended, she became irritable. But she’d get to the bottom of this situation and figure out how to ensure the plan remained intact. She wondered what type of damage might have already occurred.
Victoria took three deep breaths.
She needed to continue with her regular schedule. First, she had to meet with the gardener to discuss final plans for decorating the house and grounds for the county Christmas Home Tour. The Taylor estate was usually the featured home, and this year would be a repeat performance. They would also host the J&W Christmas party one last time.
While she had disdain for the gaudy light displays other people used on their homes, she believed a clean set of white lights outlining the considerable mansion, along with a few carefully placed wreaths, symbolized the perfect balance of class and respect during the holiday season. She would make Daddy proud, even though he had died several years earlier.
She also had a meeting in town with the board of her main charity, Help for the Homeless. It was the time of year when they had a lot of activity. She’d been the chairperson of the board ever since her husband passed away. To her, the charity’s chairmanship was now part of the family heritage, and it would be passed on to the next generation just like any other financial interest. Who knows, or cares, if the other members agreed. She’d find a way to make it happen—she always did.
The door chime rang. “Ms. Taylor, Juan is here to meet with you.” The butler guided the estate gardener into the conservatory.
***
Clutching his wide-brimmed straw hat and feeling out of place inside the mansion, Juan thought it was odd to be reintroduced to a lady who he saw in passing two to three times every week. He believed this annual pre-Christmas summit was her way of making sure he knew he had certain obligations to fulfill. He knew if he didn’t complete the work they agreed upon, to the quality she expected, their fifteen-year business relationship would come to an abrupt end.
She rarely showed emotion in front of her staff, but everyone knew there was a storm brewing under her pompous façade. As she approached, he could see the cumulus clouds building.
***
Victoria felt the tremble of the vibrating cell phone in her pants pocket and dismissed Juan, telling him she’d inspect his work the next day.
“Good morning. Yes, this is Victoria,” she said into the phone, gradually shutting the twelve-foot, double, library doors, imported from Spain.
“Victoria, Chuck Hagard here. How are you doing this holiday season?”
“Chuck, let’s please dismiss the holiday tidings. I assume you’re aware of the major story in the newspaper? I need to understand more on this situation. Do we have any interest in this story? I need to know everything is proceeding as planned.”
Victoria considered Chuck a grizzly veteran of the business world, a savvy business partner, and occasionally a tough adversary.
“I think we might have a cause for concern here. I’m working a number of angles on my end. I know you want more details. They’re not completely clear to me, but let my team and me gather the information and get back to you in the next couple of days. I’m sure we have agreement on one item—we will figure out a way to get around this situation and still allow our plan to be executed,” he said.
“Execution might not be the best choice of words right now.”
“We’ve developed contacts in certain agencies, which could be to our advantage to maneuver around this situation and still proceed with our plans uninterrupted,” Chuck said.
Chuck avoided using the term “murder,” as had Victoria. The stakes in this deal were enormous. And despite the events of the last few days, the reward still outweighed the risk.
Chapter Ten
“Baby, you have the only front-row seat. Just sit down and relax.” Marisa gently pressed my shoulders until I plopped into my leather chair. “I want your opinion on something. I’ll be back in a sec.”
There was a provocative sound to her voice, so I didn’t budge. She disappeared around the corner. Thirty seconds later, her head peeked around the wall leading to our bedroom. “Just remember, your opinion will be taken under consideration, but this isn’t a democracy. Or shall I say, ‘this isn’t the 1950s.’” She playfully stuck out her tongue at me.
I heard music from the bedroom. I smiled. The tune sounded familiar…yep, it was a big-band song from Michael Buble. That set an upbeat mood.
“Here is the first of three choices. You have to remember. No touching the merchandise—we have a purpose here.” I could hear the lightheartedness in her voice.
One leg slowly extended beyond the wall. Her foot had a bright-red high heel on it. She strutted around the corner like she was on the cat walk.
Her voice carried confidence. “In our first selection of the night, Marisa twinkles more than a Christmas tree. A sexy, but classy black party dress, this number sports a V-neck scoop. It will be the talk of the town because of the amazing array of silver sparkles covering the entire dress.”
I heard words, but it was difficult to focus, my eyes ogling every curve and sliver of skin. The way the dress wrapped around her backside made her booty look absolutely delicious.
“Can we stop now? I like this one,” I said with two hands on the chair, ready to spring into action, still not understanding the intent of the exercise.
“Two more dresses,” she said walking away.
“For what?”
“For the Taylor Christmas party of course, silly.” She winked at me just before disappearing around the corner.
As she reentered the living room in dress number two, I began chuckling at her ability to provide commentary while walking the runway like an accomplished Paris model.
“Once again in her designer red heels, our model is now wearing a one-shoulder black party dress. Complimented by a gray sash, this combination makes a bold statement during party season.”
I marveled at the top part of the dress, showing off her left shoulder, the perfect muscle tone. She made the turn, gave her hip one last pop, and disappeared again.
She saved the best for the end. For option number three, she’d added a lot of mousse to her hair, creating a Keri Russell-type of look. The dress, once again, was black and had a modest dip in the front to show off her substantial cleavage. When she moved closer to me, she shook her hips both ways, and then turned for the walk-away. That’s when I saw her entire back revealed, right down to the top of her derriere.
Marisa had me in the palm of her hand.
She dimmed the lights and told me to close my eyes. The music then segued to one of Buble’s classic love ballads, changing the mood. We had danced to this song the night we decided to move in together. The rhythm of my heart changed from panting dog to lover.
“Okay, open your eyes.”
She walked slowly, deliberately toward me, wearing the red heels, and nothing more.
“
This is your lucky day, Michael Doyle.” She sat on my lap. “We’re going to see if you’re up to the test.”
I picked her up, and she curled her heels and legs around my waist as we kissed. I stumbled, and we fell onto the couch six feet away. She stripped off my clothes, then guided us to the bedroom, where we made love for the next sixty minutes. In the end, she yelled out my name and collapsed on my chest.
She had touched my heart and I had touched hers.
“I’m not sure what I did to deserve this. I don’t think I missed any important anniversary dates, have I?”
“Michael, one day we might have a real anniversary date for you to remember, not some first date, or first time we had sex.” Her chin rested on my chest. “But seeing you lying on that stretcher this week, hearing your story, I gained perspective. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me we’re made for each other. We have trust in each other, and we’re in love. I just wanted you to know how I felt.”
I fell asleep with visions of red heels dancing in my head.
Chapter Eleven
I awoke the next morning refreshed and kissed Marisa on her cheek. She squeezed my leg and released a loving groan. With renewed energy, I bounced outside to scoop up the paper, wondering if the press had learned what I knew about the murder—the body stuffed in the plastic garbage bag was female. As I leaned over to pick up the paper, I realized Stu hadn’t called me back with more questions. Fine by me. I noticed the For Sale sign in the Silva’s front yard had disappeared. Maybe they’d reconciled. Or decided to not join the great race for accumulating the most expensive trophies. I hoped we could all start hanging out together again and have some fun.
With the paper tucked under my arm, I took Marisa’s morning mug of coffee to the master bath where she was applying her final touches of makeup before heading off to work. Picking up the main section of the Times Herald, my eyes became glued to the primary article, written by Stu. The coroner’s office had finally released the name of the victim: Tiffany Chambers.
Bile crept up in my throat as I reached for the edge of the tub. A name, a person connected to the arm I’d seen slide out of the bag. The cold, white arm belonged to Tiffany, someone I knew. I squinted my eyes, hoping I wouldn’t vomit. But the image flashed repeatedly, forcing me to replay the sick and confused feeling I’d experienced when I first saw the arm.
“Michael, are you okay?” I pointed to the newspaper. Marisa grabbed a face cloth, wet it, and held it against my forehead.
“A name had to come out eventually.” She squeezed my shoulder.
I thought more about the person Stu had disclosed as the victim of a murder. While attractive and professional in every interaction I had with her, Tiffany’s personality seemed to be guarded, slightly fake. She appeared reluctant to form a genuine bond with anyone.
I had no reason to think somebody would want to kill Tiffany. Frankly, at Greenberg & Associates, the person most vilified by employees, customers, and vendors was Jeanne, the owner and chief taskmaster. Though Jeanne could be a hard ass, she still had strong morals. That’s really the only way I could put up with her. When her character was tested, she viewed the world through an ethical lens.
We read more. The coroner’s office still hadn’t determined cause of death. I surmised it wasn’t a quick gunshot to the head or some other singular violent act. Then again, I’m just a mid-level IT manager…I had no clue. I only knew what I saw, and the horror would never leave my mind.
I now had two more tasks on my schedule—contact Stu to learn more information on his murder investigation story and speak with Jeanne Greenberg.
I wondered when I’d have more time to dig for details on the company acquisition. Life at J&W would soon change, and I felt certain, not for the better.
For the employees who worked at J&W, a murder within a few feet of our office was unimaginable, but, on a personal level, not as frightening as losing their jobs, which would alter their lives forever.
The connection I’d unknowingly developed with my colleagues kept the hunt for more answers about the acquisition at the top of my mind. A murmur of throbbing pain pulsated deep within my skull. I wasn’t sure if I could fix any of this crap.
Chapter Twelve
The glare of the morning sun forced me to cup my hands against the murky glass as I looked through the window, searching for movement inside Greenberg & Associates. I turned away and saw the streets beginning to fill up, possibly eager shoppers getting an early start on their Christmas shopping. Having stopped by on my way to work, I heard the car engine click sporadically at the curb just a few feet away.
Enough delays. I opened the metal-framed door, and the electronic bell announced my entry. Tiffany’s desk was vacant, cleared of personal items; only a phone, a clean notepad, and a pen remained.
One of Jeanne’s associates came up to the front. Dabbing her trail of tears with a tissue, she told me about the shock she and her colleagues had felt when they heard the news only an hour before. She said they’d begun to worry about Tiffany when she didn’t show up for work. They called her cell phone several times, but it rolled to her voice mail. They were hoping she’d simply decided to go back home to see her family.
“Where’s she from?” I asked.
“Oklahoma. Someone said near Stillwater.” Interesting, isn’t that where Karina is from? “We’re just all stunned right now. I think a lot of us feared the worst. We were concerned something had happened to her. Tiffany was way too responsible to just disappear overnight.”
She said the lead investigator, Carl Pearson, had set up an appointment to interview everyone at the firm later in the morning.
Just then, Jeanne entered the front area, walking at half her normal pace. Her makeup was smeared. I’d never seen her look so vulnerable and shaken.
“Michael, good morning. Let’s go back to my office and talk.”
It’s unlikely her employees had ever bonded with Jeanne. And she was doing her best to maintain the emotional gap. From what I’d been told, she’d witnessed death up close as a youngster in Russia, watching her young cousin being mauled by a rabid dog. She had also heard horrifying stories from her parents who lived in Germany at the time of the Holocaust. I would imagine she had pushed those events far back in her memory, not expecting to revisit those demons in our suburban city.
As she walked into her office, she didn’t bother shutting her door. She didn’t sit down. She just stood there and then put her hand over her face.
“Michael,” she said softly.
“Yes, Jeanne?” I hated to see such a strong-willed woman in so much pain.
“How can a human being kill another person?” Jeanne’s eyes spilled tears.
I grabbed a tissue from her desk and offered it to her. I noticed how the wrinkles in her face deepened with less makeup. I’m not sure she was looking for a response, but I felt a need to provide one. “I don’t know, Jeanne. It’s hard to fathom.” Visions of the dreadful morning polluted my mind.
We stood in silence, both staring out through the metal blinds in her office. She reached out and grabbed my arm, catching me off guard. I tried to remain steady, physically and emotionally.
“You’re a good man, Michael Doyle,” she whispered, clutching my arm harder, as if that would plug her tear ducts. “Your mother raised a strong person. You must have had nightmares since you found Tiffany.” She wiped moisture from her face.
“Yes, I have.”
“I’ve seen my share of horror, and I can say the strong will survive. Life can be vicious at times, but it never stops. We will all eventually thrive again.” Jeanne held her tissue to her face.
Astonished to see Jeanne on the verge of losing it, I tried to keep her calm.
“You’re right, Jeanne. Thank you for your supportive words.” A lump formed in my throat.
She put her game face back on, and we discussed business. Then, she walked me to the front.
I opened the front door. “Without a doubt, Jean
ne, we can sit down to discuss any new requirements for this next tax season. We’ll make sure your needs are taken care of at J&W.” It hit me—the next time we met, J&W would no longer be on my business card.
I stepped onto the sidewalk, and a man strode toward the Greenberg & Associates front door. Followed by two other people, including one uniformed police officer, he turned his head toward me like a dog hearing a high-pitched noise.
“Michael Doyle?” he asked.
Before I could respond, he flashed his badge in my face. “I’m Carl Pearson, lead investigator for the murder of Tiffany Chambers.”
“Good morning.”
“My team and I need to speak with everyone who came in contact with Ms. Chambers just prior to her death, which is why we’re here at her employer’s office,” he said. “I’d like to visit with you too. This afternoon at headquarters. I’m sure you can find the time.”
Chapter Thirteen
Victoria exhaled loudly before turning the ignition key. Those bastards just don’t have any clue how to run a charity, she thought to herself. She pulled away from the curb in her new eighty-thousand dollar, Indian-made Jaguar XFR.
Her phone vibrated on the leather passenger seat, but after a quick glance, she kept her eyes on the road, ensuring she didn’t lose control of the five hundred horsepower under her foot. Once she made her way past the downtown traffic, she pressed the button to return the call.
“Yes, this is Victoria.” She was irritated from her spirited Help for the Homeless board meeting and, thinking the person on the call might be adding more anxiety, her voice was impatient.
“Victoria, Chuck Hagard here,” he said in his slight southern drawl. “My team has gathered more information on the situation down there. As you know, I’ve had a man on the ground overseeing our behind-the-scenes operations. Apparently, this little girl had a number of coals in the fire, so to speak.”
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